In 221 Words
by Spark Writer
Summary: A series of 221 word unrelated drabbles, in which I will try to capture the essence of Sherlock and John's friendship and life at 221B. Not as fluffy as one might think. :D
1. Chapter I

_~One~_

John awoke in the middle of the night, gripped with a bewildering desire for tea. He felt pleasantly delirious as he padded softly down the stairs, doubting that Sherlock was asleep, but not wanting to rouse him if he was. The flat was unusually still; there were no impatient violin melodies, no explosives, and no angry mutterings from Sherlock as he sought to solve a case. Everything was magnificently still. John moved quietly into the dark kitchen and flicked the overhead light on, bathing the steel appliances in a soft florescent glow. He filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, humming under his breath. As he turned from the stove in search of sugar cubes, he saw something beautiful.

There, sprawled gracefully on the sofa, was Sherlock. His eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, the light from the kitchen catching his hair and turning it to silver. John forgot his tea and stepped into the dark sitting room, chest inexplicably tight. Sherlock hadn't removed his coat, so the hem drooped over the sofa's edge and flirted with the floor. He looked so quiet, so wonderfully young. John felt equally intrusive and privileged to witness Sherlock in his unconscious moments, for the sheer sight of the sleeping detective sent hot little strokes of affection skittering through his body.

The kettle whistled. John left Sherlock to his dreams.

* * *

**Hello everyone! Well, I said I had nothing more to write for the Sherlock fandom, but apparently I was wrong. :) I have very little time to write anymore, so I want to work on drabbles that are 221 words long (I know, everyone has done them) to give me manageable writing projects. I will post when I can, and I'm so glad to be writing more Sherlock! Incidentally, this drabble is actually 231 words long, but I will do my best to end at 221 in the future. Thanks for reading and tell me what you think! ;D**

**With love,**

**-Spark Writer-**


	2. Chapter II

_~Two~_

"Sherlock, why don't you ever sit properly in a chair?" John glanced sidelong at his flatmate's hunched figure, wondering for the millionth time what would possess a grown man to sit with his shoe-clad feet drawn awkwardly beneath him.

Sherlock looked over his knees at John, fiercely defiant. "If you're about to burst forth with a litany of criticism, John, I suggest you rethink your actions. I sit how I like to sit; it's comfortable, it helps me think, and it's interesting."

John smiled slightly. "_Interesting_. So you enjoy looking like a severely aqua-phobic man on a dock's edge? Nice."

Sherlock pursed his lips, breaking into a harsh frown. "I appreciate interesting, interesting is what motivates me, interesting breathes passion into the dullest of existences. And if my choice to be interesting borders on what ordinary people call peculiar, so be it. God, if life wasn't interesting, I'd kill myself and haunt Anderson."

"Well that _would_ that would be a damn close second," said John, flashing Sherlock an arch look.

Sherlock glanced away, and John caught his conceding smile in the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece. He was like that; both childish and desperate not to seem so, disrespectful yet starving for respect, observant but so very blind to the deeper aspects of himself.

"I like interesting," murmured John.

* * *

_Review?_

_Peace,_

_-Spark Writer-_


	3. Chapter III

_~Three~_

"This was a terrible idea, John."

John exhaled slowly, and laid a pacifying hand on Sherlock's arm. "Just—give it half a chance, will you?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "I'm quite averse to the idea of playing with others."

John forbade himself to laugh. "Look, Sherlock, everyone here simply enjoys playing their violin, and they want to play with others who feel similarly. It'll be fine. These are nice people—and if anyone tries to mickey out of you, just remember: I was in the army."

"You were a doctor."

"Exactly," said John. "I'm good with sharp things."

"Fine." Sherlock rose from the park bench and glanced distrustfully in the direction of his fellow musicians. Stradivarius in hand, he marched over and joined the amateur string ensemble.

John sat back, thinking that getting Sherlock to come here had been a rather good idea. He needed moments in which he could be human, and forget crimes and murder and cryptic clues. He deserved to be recognized for other talents as well, and John would stop at nothing to make that happen.

A mousey sort of man in a rumpled shirt and trousers waved his violin to call everyone to attention.

"Let's begin with the national anthem, shall we?"

There were murmurs of assent, and Sherlock readied his violin, looking all elbow, jaw and neck. John had seen him play before—many times—but never with anyone besides himself. He was different this afternoon; more subdued and focused—so determined not to look at John! He was graceful and steadfast, and triggered a terrible-wonderful fluttering in the good doctor's stomach.

Never had John so heartily enjoyed "God Save the Queen."

_A/N: I don't know, should I continue with these? Tell me what you think. :) Review!_

_-Spark Writer-_


	4. Chapter IV

_~Four~_

John had grown accustomed to Sherlock's frequent boredom, but he still could not grasp why the good detective would find a triple murder involving missing organs boring. This particular case had come to their attention that morning; Sherlock had been summoned to the crime scene to help solve the baffling case. Yet now, while everyone else rushed frantically about collecting samples of bodily fluids, Sherlock was pulling a small notepad from his capacious coat pocket and writing something in it.

John joined him.

"Bored," said Sherlock.

"Sherlock, this is the least boring situation one could possibly find themselves in."

"Oneself," corrected Sherlock. "And you're wrong, the killer knows exactly what happened, therefore he or she is the least bored of all of us."

John heaved a sigh, and peered at Sherlock's notebook with frank surprise. "Are you drawing?"

A blush flared on Sherlock's cheeks and he closed the book with a snap.

"Wait!" John tugged it from the detective's hand. He flipped through the ink-laced pages until he found the last drawing. It was decidedly un-Sherlocky.

Sherlock had drawn an elaborate, deeply rooted tree, which seemed to be an artful hybrid of plant and human. Veins twisted up the tree's limbs and John saw that one of them had been severed; it bled drops of black blood.

The image stole John's breath away. "Damn," he said softly.

"What?"

"If I had my mobile on me, I could take a bloody picture."

"Have it," said Sherlock, tearing the page and handing it over.

"Are you serious?"

"Quite."

"You could have told me you were an artist, you know."

"I'm not."

"You're very good."

"John, I'm not!"

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Shut up, I'm giving you a compliment.

"Oh god, I knew you would try to modify me with one of those—one of your—"

"Manners?"

"Well…thank you. John."

"Atta boy."

_A/N: For some reason, it's head-cannon for me that Sherlock is a good drawer... :)_

_Thanks for reading, lovely people! Review! ...I feel that I am wobbling on the edge of Johnlock, at times, but I doubt I'll ever fully dive into it. I'm more in the mood for friendship. That, however, doesn't in any way exclude Sherlock and John's amazingly fantastic chemistry. xD I'll be keeping that._

_-Spark Writer-_


	5. Chapter V

_~Five~_

Though John was much more socially adept than Sherlock, he still disliked overcrowded gatherings. Parties, for instance. This particular fete was the celebration of Neville Reed's return to his home in London, after a harrowing eight days of being held hostage. Sherlock was the guest of honor, and he sat uncomfortably in his velvet draped folding chair while Mr. Reed's family and friends fussed over him and his mind of steel. John sat faithfully beside Sherlock, fiddling with the neck of his wine glass and watching people dance in the large, glossy dining room. A sudden stroke of boldness overcame him, and he turned to Sherlock.

"Let's dance."

Sherlock glanced back, both bewildered and wary. "Why?"

"Just come on." John stood and straightened his lapel. For a split second, he was nervous, but overrode the feeling by telling himself that two men could bloody well dance with each other if they wanted to.

Sherlock followed him to an unoccupied bit of floor, and faced John. They stared at each other. John wanted to blush, laugh, sit back down, grab Sherlock's hand—all sorts of rash and ridiculous things, to ease the sudden tension.

A new song began and John felt it familiar, though he couldn't place the name. "D'you know this song?" he asked.

Sherlock frowned. "U2," he said. "Stuck in a moment you can't get out of."

"Yes," smiled John. How in the world had the sociopathic detective known? "Yes, now I remember. Bit sad of a title, isn't it? Well, no, you'd probably say it was terribly boring."

"I don't know," said Sherlock, for the first time in John's memory. "It would depend on the moment, I suppose."

John thought he detected sentiment, but that would be too cliché, too sentimental, and altogether too human of Sherlock. Nevertheless, even as he willed the thought to subside, he could not help thinking that this was a moment he wouldn't mind getting stuck in.

_A/N: Prompts? Requests?_


	6. Chapter VI

_~Six~_

"Sherlock, where's my blue tee shirt? The old one Mrs. Hudson keeps threatening to toss in the rubbish?"

Silence.

"Sherlock? I need your help!"

John shut his closet door, feeling snappish from lack of breakfast and understanding. He had been unable to locate his favorite tee shirt anywhere in the flat—though, admittedly he hadn't touched Sherlock's room—and was becoming increasingly more annoyed as the day progressed.

He left his room and stumped down the stairs. He found Sherlock typing at _his_ laptop, looking exasperatingly satisfied.

"Where is it, then?" asked John. "My blue shirt? And that's my laptop you're using, by the way. _And_ I just changed the password. God."

Sherlock went a funny color of pink, and halted his typography mid-sentence. He cleared his throat. "Your shirt is—not here anymore."

"What d'you mean _not here anymore_?" John sat angrily in the armchair and stared at Sherlock. "What have you done with it?"

"A few weeks back, I may have spilled some hydrochloric acid while you were at the shops."

"You've got to be joking."

"That would have been a ridiculous attempt at jocularity on my part, John."

"Never mind, just go on."

"And before the acid spill spread into a dangerously large puddle, I may have taken your shirt from the laundry and used it to tidy the mess."

John blinked. "So I assume you took the remaining shred of fabric and chucked it in the bin?"

Sherlock nodded once. "I am sorry, John. But really—why would losing that shirt make you upset? It's a piece of cloth, for God's sake!"

"No, it's not just that, Sherlock! It's got sentimental value. Imagine if I took your favourite dressing gown and drenched it in acid! How would you feel?"

"Curious," said Sherlock, "as to whether the indigo dye molecules would retain their structure after being besieged with hydrochloric acid. Oh, by the way, I assume you'd like your laptop back?"

John's unruffled composure intensified to a deadly degree.

"No shit, Sherlock."

_A/N: Prompts? Thank you for your lovely reviews so far; they're really great. :)_


	7. Chapter VII

_~Seven~_

Every now and then, Sherlock felt things too quiet in the flat and took it upon himself to change that—usually by way of scientific lecture. He was currently devouring an old and dusty volume that described the bodily processes postmortem, and thought John might benefit from a few facts relayed. He laid the book in his lap, and looked over at his flatmate.

"Why are you reading _The Sun_?"

John calmly turned a page. "I've told you before, Sherlock. We need to keep a constant eye on what the press thinks of you. Their angle, opinions, criticisms…etcetera."

"Stop saying _we _when I don't agree with you."

"We're getting angry, now, are we?"

"Decomposition," blurted Sherlock, choosing to ignore john's last comment completely, "is the process by which organic substances are broken down into humbler forms of matter. The process is essential for recycling the finite matter that occupies physical space in the biome. Bodies of these living organisms begin to decompose shortly after death, and although no two organisms decompose identically, they all experience the same sequential stages of putrefaction."

John arched an eyebrow, dually repulsed and amused. "Do you not remember that I attended medical school, Sherlock? I know how things decompose."

Sherlock shot him a dark look. "As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted—" And he was off on yet another speech about death and dying and dead things, and how endlessly this fascinated him. He became fully enveloped in his own oversized brain, gazing out the window as his brain fed his tongue information, and his tongue immediately communicated it in a graceful anatomic dance. In fact, as he concluded his passionate monologue, Sherlock had quite forgotten that he was speaking to a living person and not the wall—for he did that sometimes, as well.

He snapped around to catch _that look_ of reluctant admiration in John's face before it faded. Instead, a rather upsetting tableau confronted him: John was fast asleep, frown lines temporarily relaxed, head resting in his open palm.

Sherlock's spine stiffened of its own accord, and he stepped closer to the sleeping doctor, awash with momentary disbelief. This was a rough blow to his ego. He'd always hated when family members or fellow university students nodded off during one of his deductions, and this felt equally irritating and humiliating.

Sherlock debated waking John, but somewhere amidst wounded pride and great annoyance, lay a softer feeling, an unexpected warmth generated from seeing the doctor in such an intimate, vulnerable situation.

Sherlock plucked the tartan blanket from an armchair and draped it gently over John, careful not to disturb him. Then he sank quietly down on the sofa and discovered with some surprise that his urge to pout had evaporated. So he sat with John in the sitting room, sat with him for a long while.

And when dusk fell, he would not even turn on a lamp.

_(A/N): The idea for this fic was given to me by the lovely mylia11. Thank you for this; I thoroughly (really, really) enjoyed writing it. :) _

_We're already on Ch. 7, ever onward!_

_-Spark Writer-_


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